


Your mouth is poison (your mouth is wine)

by LatibuleFizzgig



Series: I don't have a choice (but I'd still choose you) [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Era, F/M, Genderbending, Masturbation, Post-Season/Series 04 Finale, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-03-16 03:08:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3472184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LatibuleFizzgig/pseuds/LatibuleFizzgig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a magical force decides it needs to do something about them, Merlin and Morgana find themselves stuck in a castle with only each other for company.</p>
<p>It goes just as badly as one would expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He would never tell Arthur. Or Gaius. Or anyone except the quiet of the night. They wouldn’t quite understand. They’d question his loyalty. His sanity. Nothing he didn’t already tell himself already. 
> 
> Over and over. 
> 
> And yet he will never regret it. Her. 
> 
> He’d never regret her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole thing was inspired by the song Poison and Wine by the Civil Wars. Every time I listened to it, I saw Merlin and Morgana's relationship in my head. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

_He would never tell Arthur.  Or Gaius.  Or anyone except the quiet of the night.  They wouldn’t quite understand.  They’d question his loyalty.  His sanity.  Nothing he didn’t already tell himself already._

_Over and over._

_And yet he will never regret it.  Her._

_He’d never regret her._

_\--_

It had started when she kidnapped him again.  She had no intention of using him to kill Arthur again—that she made clear quickly. 

“Then why could you possibly want me?”  He was strung up in an abandoned castle that made the magic in him skitter restlessly under his skin. It was taking all his control just to keep it from manifesting visibly.  The combination of restraint and the discomfort of his position was straining his voice.

The smile she gave him was nothing short of mad.  Sadness and no small amount of fear welled through him.  He could not help but remember the noble woman that had taken him as her friend when she first came to Camelot.  The woman that had helped defend his hometown.  Who was unafraid to tell Uther when he was unjust.

This creature before him was nothing like her.  And it was all his fault.

But she was still beautiful.  The only bit of color about her were her eyes; green and pale as budding spring.  Hunger was set in the gauntness of her face, making her appear more fey than human. He doubted that other women could make such a haunted look into something others would crave but despite his intentions to hate her--crave her he did.

“Why, to kill you, of course.”

Of course.

He was half tempted to let her. 

Except Arthur needed him. 

Arthur and Gwen and and Gaius and the knights and the druids and all the children who would be born with magic being told they were wrong when they were beautiful.  Merlin couldn’t let himself die, if only for them.

“Morgana—“

The air around them shuddered.  Lights appeared in the cracks of the stone—blazing like northern lights trying to break free of their prison.  His own magic leapt at it and he felt it blaze in his eyes just as Morgana looked to the source of the immense power.  He reigned it in just in time for her to look at him with an accusation in the angles of her eyebrows, the tightening of her hands.

“What did you do?”

“He does nothing, daughter of the Triple Goddess.” 

The voice resonated around them without a particular source.  Except for the air the earth the light and shadow.  His magic trembled with it, tapping against his skin.  As they watched, the light took a human-like form.

“Who are you?”

“I am the guardian of this castle.  No blood shall be shed here.” 

The voice was nothing short of powerful.  It was many voices talking at once.  It was older than Kilgarrah.  Older than the Cup of Life.  Older than the destiny that thrummed through him every time he saw Arthur take a step toward Albion. 

“This castle is a refuge for those of magic.  For those children of earth that must hold the curse of Fate upon their shoulders.”  He felt the voice look _into_ him.  Knowing every dark secret and the sharp cut of every lie he told himself.  And soothe them.  Remind him of the candle of a blond king who lobbed pillows at his head.  Of a queen who still insisted he call her Gwen. Of commoners swearing themselves to his king—to the kingdom they were building.  Of the hope he’d forgotten.

He could breathe freely in that moment.  Like one who had been drowning reintroduced to air.  A starving man diving into the freshest of fruits.

Tears fell from his eyes without his consent.

He saw the change in Morgana.  Saw that she was truly back.  His Morgana.  Camelot’s beautiful and kind Lady.  A woman anyone would die and kill for.  A woman that wouldn’t ask that burden on anyone. A woman who wasn’t so consumed by fear that hate was all she could remember.

“How…”

Morgana’s question echoed his.  He hadn’t felt this peace since before Camelot.  Before he learned the fear his mother had instilled in him.

“I am older than your Old Religion, child.”  The voice was all the gentleness of his mother after a nightmare or a magic scare.  The warmth of Gaius’ arms after a particularly dark choice.  The light of a night at the tavern with his friends—alive and well despite dragonfire and dark magic and every one of his mistakes.  “Your goddess has no sway over me.  Your prophecies are meaningless.”

A sliver of the light broke away in a ribbon as soft and beautiful as water and brushed through Morgana’s dark hair.  Caressed her cheek.  She closed her eyes and the look of bliss and innocence on her face made every part of him ache.

“I am you, my precious girl.  I am Emrys.  I am the children that Uther murdered.  The children that slipped free.  No harm will come to you here.”

“He isn’t one of us.”

That hurt.  The confusion and condemnation and fear. 

He’d done that.

But the magic pressed more firmly around him.  Cocooning him in a relief he didn’t deserve.

“He is Emrys’ chosen representative.  In this way, destiny has claimed him also.”

No secrets would be given today.  And yet the Voice didn’t lie.  Merlin could never truly be Emrys while he lied to all Camelot.  And yet he was.  Always caught between the unrelenting tide of lies—the one that had ruined him and Morgana both—and the severe push of destiny.

“My children,” the Voice felt so close to tears it pulled at his heart and he longed to ease its pain as it had for them, “you have suffered so.  Lost much. Your hearts can no longer hold what you should know to be truth.  I am so sorry, dear ones.  I beg that you allow yourselves to be free, if only for a moment.”

The manacles that had been holding him fell off him.  Every one of them.

Moragana’s knees buckled and he reached up to catch her.  And he held her for a few blessed seconds before she started to pull away.  Recoiling from his touch as if she remembered he was her enemy.

He let her, even if the thought of her being alone in the moment of weakness repelled him.  (The thought of being alone in his weakness.)

_‘Oh, my dear Merlin.  You still desire her.’_

The Voice was in his head like Druids and Kilgarrah but less invasive and more like himself giving up truths already known. 

‘ _I—can’t.  She—‘_

_‘Do not deny your heart.  You wish for her to return to you.’_

And he did.  He didn’t need her love or friendship—he could live without either or both if only she would goad Arthur into being a better man again.  If she would fight for the downtrodden without an ounce of ambition for herself.  If she would lose the fear and the anger and be free.

How Merlin wished for it.  He would give up himself to whatever befell him if only to have her back. 

Morgana was shaking her head and he knew the Voice was breaking the lies she told herself against the stones of the castle as if they were waves on a beach.  Truths that could have been a hammer on an anvil but instead were as natural as the moon pulling the water into a natural rhythm. 

“You may hate me for this, children.”

And then magic washed over them and Merlin felt the magic press into his veins and change him.

It was only when it was over that he realized what had happened.  And it took only a glance to see the same change in Morgana.

She was no longer filling out the dark dress with curves that had always stolen the attention of men and women alike.  Her shoulders had broadened, jaw squared.  There was hardly any softness on her—those curves turned to angles.

She was no longer a woman taken by darkness but a man hollowed out. 

Just as he was now aware of new breasts and the strangest sense of nothing where once had been his cock.

“What—“

“Until you reclaim that which you once were, you will not become yourselves again.”  There was a sense of apology in the words.  But it was the kind of apology both of them knew well.  The apology of one who wouldn’t take back what they’d done.  “Before you leave as you are, know the Triple Goddess will not accept a man as her own.  And even Arthur Pendragon could not accept a maid as his personal servant.  I insist that you stay until you are yourselves, though I will not hold you prisoner."

The truth stung.  It was also tempting.  Morgana wouldn’t be half as powerful without her goddess’ support.  Except she would fast become a priest of the Old Religion and start again on Camelot.  And Merlin wouldn’t be able to protect Arthur as readily if he couldn’t be by his side as often as he was now.

_‘I don't understand how this will change anything.’_

_‘It will not.  Excepting in that while you are here you may chose to know happiness.’_

And then the world shimmered around them and the castle was suddenly whole again.  The stones were strong and new and tapestries depicting events that only forbidden books spoke of.  They were in a room with stained glass and great pillars with magic carved into them.  A great hall meant for kings.  Not a vengeful witch and a shameless liar.

Morgana stood, not looking at him.

Her hair was still long and thick despite the change—just as his was still the short mess it always had been.  Her back was to him, hands balled at her side.  Any release she’d had was gone, taken over by muscles as tense as her fists.

Merlin stood as well but Morgana ignored him. 

So he started to wander.

“Where—are you leaving?”

He almost said yes.  Because he could always sneak after Arthur, even if he was forced to wear a dress and all that.  But he wouldn’t do that to her.

Not here.

“No.  This place…”

“Yeah…”

She forgot for a moment that he wasn’t magical (even if he was) and just that this was a miracle in and of itself. 

So he wandered.  He didn’t try to figure out where he was going or plan it or find quick exits. A garden that had birds that couldn’t be real.  Every fire was lit but no matter how close he got, the heat was never oppressive and no corner of the castle was drafty. 

Every window held an impossible view.  He saw the ocean from one room and when he opened it, salt air filled his nostrils and the sound of it broke the silence even though they were leagues away from any shoreline.  Another showed miles upon miles of golden plains like he couldn't have expected existed.  Mountains that held up the sky broke the horizon of another.  A desert room that smelled of heat and sand.  One room seemed caught in a constant night with a moon bright enough to read by shining through the window.  Another had patterns of frost on the window though it was high summer.

He wandered until he saw a door with a dragon carved into it.  The room brought a smile to his face.  This room was after his own heart.

Dragons filled the room.  Carved on the bedposts.  Charred on the back of the stone fireplace.  Flying on the ceiling.  He wasn’t surprised to see a bookshelf, the bookends being statues of dragons, and when he started reading one of them he found it was about dragon lore. 

This room was for him and his kin.  He wondered if it had housed any of his family before the Purge had killed off dragons and dragonlords alike.

Further inspection to the room revealed a room with the most luxurious bath he’d ever seen. It was built-in, unlike even Arthur’s movable tub, right next to the wall.  The water seemed to be moving slowly into a low drain while more water poured in a smooth waterfall at the foot of the tub.

Merlin realized quickly that it would take dirtied water away even as he washed so it would always remain clear and fresh.  Steam rose above the surface and when he dipped a finger in, he found it to be a perfect temperature.

When he looked for soap he couldn’t quite find any, but he also couldn’t find it in him to care as he quickly stripped out of his filthy clothes.  He did his best not to look at his female body but he couldn’t quite help himself because, despite Gwaine’s best intentions, the only times he’d seen a naked woman was when he was helping Gaius with is duties as physician.

Being a female was…odd.  The unfamiliar sensation of nothing between his thighs was even more unnerving now that he could see the lack of his cock.  He also had less hair on him altogether.  It was still there on his legs, but it was less coarse and there was a distinct lack of hair on his chest.

His chest. 

His breasts weren’t anything to gawk at, at least by Gwaine’s standards. (Okay, all breasts were in Gwaine's standards to gawk at, but they were on _his body_ and that was _weird_.)  They were small but when he cupped them (those were _breasts_ in his _hand_ and they were _attached to him_.) they were heavier than he’d have guessed. 

Trying not to think about it, he finally stepped into the water and lowered himself in. A groan of relief filled the room as he settled in, laying his head back.  He was sorely tempted to never return to Camelot.

Before he let himself fully relax, he took a small cloth folded near some bottles with shining oils in them and started scrubbing away dirt and blood.  As suspected, it floated away to where he couldn’t guess.

Curiosity got a hold of him and he uncorked one of the bottles. It smelled slightly like freshly bloomed flowers.  When he rubbed it between his hands it started to foam.  After he washed it away, he grinned when he found his hands were cleaner than they’d ever been.

Liquid soap!  What a wonder.

With the soap’s assistance, cleaning himself became quite easy.  He tried not to think about the amount of dirt and dried blood that was washing away.  Or that the reason it was there was also in the castle.

Task complete, he closed his eyes and just relaxed.  Like he hadn’t in months. 

It wasn’t until he subconsciously reached down to cup his cock that he re-remembered he didn’t have one at the moment and was met only with hair. 

He would never tell anyone that he blushed (he would really never tell anyone anything, but it was important that they didn't know he’d blushed).  Instinct told him to stop there and flee but he wasn’t a coward and he was curious.

Looking down at himself, he ran his hands over his new body.  Feeling curves where he was used to angles and softness where he expected hardness.  He touched his breasts again, taking more time to feel them out.  There was an odd warmth settling in him as he experimented with what he could do—a small, heated jolt when he pinched his nipples.

Gooseflesh was starting to rise on his skin despite the heat of the water.

When he continued his exploration and ran fingers over the inside of his thigh he actually gasped at the sensation curling in the very center of him.

Heart speeding to match his excitement, he slowly moved to the outer lips of his—his vagina.  Gods, he had a vagina.

Brushing gently over them was going to rid him of his sanity. 

Years of being forced to read anatomy books gave him enough knowledge to start searching out the clitoris.  Once he found it, the word sounded too clinical because he couldn’t help but press his hips violently against his fingers.

His hand shot away from himself—trying to breathe normally.  And then he found he couldn’t care at the moment and started again.  He tried different things—pinching it slightly, rubbing, and circling.  Most of which had him closing his eyes tightly and biting his lip to try and keep quiet. 

Merlin found himself held on the precipice of some edge.  One that was vaguely familiar but oh so different in this body.  So he tried slipping a finger of his other hand _inside_ and felt around for—

Lightning as strong as that which he’d used to kill Nimueh blazed through him.  It had to be because he had to be _dying_ and he didn’t mind.  Couldn’t. His vision blanked out to nothing and he let loose a moan that wasn’t quite in his voice (he could get used to a female voice for _this_ ).

But he’d survived and he wondered how as he lay there limply.   He whimpered when his hands left him.

_How do girls…that’s never been…mmmm._

He started to doze off but decided it would be wiser to make it to the bed.  Merlin sat up, feeling loose limbed and as if his bones had turned into something more like one of the knights longbows. 

It took a while to be able to stand steadily enough to dry himself.  And then he looked in distaste at his ragged clothes.  Looking around, his eyes found a wardrobe and he hoped it had something to offer him.

And it did.  There were nightgowns but he couldn’t find himself to wear anything dress-like quite yet.  So he put on a soft tunic and breeches before half stumbling to bed.

He was asleep as soon as he was under the blankets.

He woke to the smell of food and when he looked around he saw a simple breakfast laid out on a small table near the window.  All of it was as fresh as if it had just been taken from the kitchens and tasted as good as something prepared for Arthur himself.

After breakfast alone in the room he’d chosen, he started to explore the castle more.  Finding more rooms like his own (avoiding the one with the symbols of the Triple Goddess completely), he wondered how big the castle really was until he found a comfortable room that seemed meant to just lounge in that he stopped.  There were a few small bookshelves that housed books and knickknacks that he brushed his fingers over.  When he pulled a book off the shelf, it seemed to be a book that had been opened and reopened hundreds of times.

He sat in one of the over-stuffed chairs and started reading.

They were stories he’d never heard.  Ones where magic is both good and evil.  With good kings and evil kings and kings who were constantly changing.  One where sorcerers were loved.  Where they were feared. One where they changed hearts.  Where boys became kings and kings either fell or changed when children confronted their evil ways.  Riddle games.  Dragonlords flying on the backs of dragons.  It was beautiful.

So beautiful he didn’t sense when Morgana had joined him.

He wanted this world.  He wanted everyone he loved in it. They deserved these endings.  Even if they weren’t always flawless, they were possible and right even if they weren’t happily ever after every time.

“What are you reading?”

He jerked up and saw her looking at him oddly.  But that may just be because she was in a different body. 

“It’s—fairy stories.”

“Oh, the good king kills the evil sorcerer?”  She sneered, looking away from him.

“Well…sometimes.  But also the good sorcerer kills the evil king. Or both king and sorcerer are both good.  Or evil.  Or two evil kings or two evil sorcerers.”  He was rambling and once he realized it he stopped.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

He kept reading as she sat, looking at the shelves like he’d done.

An urge came over him he couldn’t explain and he started reading aloud.  Morgana didn't stop him.  He finished the story he was reading—about a princess saving herself in time to save her prince—and continued to the next one.

This one had riddles.

“A ship.” Her voice stopped him for a moment and he realized she’d answered the riddle.

“Well, that one was easy.”  He said before he remembered to not antagonize her. Not here or now.

“Then why didn’t you answer it?”  There was the edge of a sneer but she mostly just sounded like she had years ago when Arthur was being stubborn.

“I did.  I just didn’t want to interrupt the story.”

“Prove it.”

“Fine.  I’ll answer the next riddle.”  It didn’t take long for it to appear.

“ _There's not a kingdom on the earth, But I have traveled over and over,  And though I know not whence my birth, Yet when I come, you know my roar. I through the town do take my flight,  And through the fields and meadows green,  And whether it be day or night,  I neither am nor can be seen.”_

It didn’t take long for him to figure it out, not even moment. “The wind.”

“That was far too easy.”  Morgana waved a dismissive hand.

“So was the first one.” Merlin countered.

“Find a harder one then.”

“Umm.  Here’s one.

“ _A thief that hangs around in bars,_

_But does not tipple booze._

_Water aids him in his theft,_

_Steals what you want to lose.”_

It wasn’t at all the hardest riddle he’d ever heard, but it was enough to make Morgana think.  He could tell the moment she’d thought of it, though, because her face lit up.

“Soap.”

He grinned.

She surprised him by throwing a riddle at him right away.

“Don't grow too attached to this thing.  Without it you will never even know it is gone. But be careful friend, it is  much easier to lose on Kingdom soil.”

He frowned, eyes turned to the ground.  “Life?”  Her eyes glittered and she continued.

“You can have me but cannot hold me;  Gain me and quickly lose me.  If treated with care I can be great,  And if betrayed I will break.

“Trust.”  He nearly whispered that, hunching in on himself and finding he couldn’t look at her.  But she stayed silent and dared him to do anything.  Say anything. He didn’t. Found he couldn’t.

But still she didn’t make a sound or move.  The guilt was heavy on his shoulders but he didn’t feel like trying to brush it off with the knowledge there had been little other choice.

An idea pressed on him rather suddenly,  drawn from a memory, and it was just ridiculous enough that he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “What word becomes shorter when you add two letters to it?”

Her eyebrows were creased in confusion, “What…”

“Well?  Do you have the answer?”

“Short?”

He grinned despite himself.  It was something Gwaine had told him while halfway to drunk.  Something so dumb that everyone who’d heard had groaned even while their lips had cracked into a smile.

“You're trapped in a room with no doors or windows. The only items in the room is a table and a mirror. How do you get out?”

Morgana looked at Merlin like he was as cracked in the head as Arthur sometimes claimed him to be.  She shook her head, at a loss.

“You look in the mirror to see what you saw.  Take the saw and saw the table in half.  Two halves make a whole and jump through the hole.”

Morgana’s lips twitched as Merlin snickered to himself.  That joke had nearly earned him a day in the stocks.  The only saving grace was that it had distracted Arthur from a particularly boring day of paper work. 

“In wonder I'm crafted by children at play. United I stand, divided I fall. Growing stronger by night and weaker by day; My death knell is heard in a red robin's call.”

He remembered Gwen telling him this one after the first snow the first winter he’d been in Camelot and knew Morgana knew the answer because she’d been there as well. 

“Snowman.”  She was smiling now, probably as caught in the memory as he was.  If she was fond of anyone in Camelot still, it would’ve been Gwen. 

“Remember the snowman we made?”

“It was awful.”  Morgana reminded him.

“Yeah, but when we were finished I told Arthur it was supposed to be him?”

“He was so angry he built a snowman of you and stabbed it.”  She was glowering like this was proof of her half-brother's corruption. 

But he wouldn't relent.

“But you got back at him by starting the biggest snowball fight in history.”  Merlin grinned at her.  “It didn’t matter if a person was a noble or a peasant.  Everyone joined in.  Everyone forgot how hard the winter was for a while.”

Morgana chuckled softly, eyes twinkling.  “Every time Arthur tried to gain control, we hit him in the face with more snow.”

Merlin laughed with her, remembering Arthur’s face every time it had happened.  It had turned into Arthur tackling him near the end of the fight and then dragging him inside to do ‘some work.’ But the prince had been relaxed for the rest of the day.  He’d even ordered a bonfire that had nothing to do with executions so everyone could warm up after the hours of play.

“You got such a bad cold.  Arthur could hardly keep a straight face because of all the sniffing you did during council.” 

She frowned then, as if nonplussed at her brief moment of happiness. 

“Surely remembering can’t be that bad?”  Merlin asked carefully.

She didn’t answer.

The silence was deafening. 

“Would you…like to play Hnefatafl?  There’s a board over there.”  Morgana didn’t look at him as she spoke.

“I—yeah.”

They moved to the board game near one of the windows.  There was also a Fox and Geese board and he wondered if she’d be willing to play later.

At first they played in silence.  But after a few games, Morgana would taunt him if he made a bad move and it didn’t take long before he would do so right back because he had been _trying_ dammit, but he was human.

Neither of them noticed when the taunting became teasing. 

It wasn’t until Merlin jumped up and whooped after winning that they stopped and stared at each other in shock.

The sky had started to darken by this point, Merlin saw.  He wondered where the time had gone.

“I’m not leaving until I’m changed back.”  Morgana said abruptly, “And neither are you.”

She swept out of the room.

Merlin left a few minutes later, retreating to his room. 

 _I have to get out of here before_ _this changes anything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took so long! Real life events I couldn't really foresee happened and what I'd planned to post a week after the first chapter turned into the ridiculous wait. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who left kudo's and comments! They meant so much to me, you have no idea. 
> 
> Also, just for your information, this fic takes place after the Season 4 finale.

As it turned out, he had nothing to worry about.

He ate another delicious breakfast in his room, reading a book of magic as he did so. The book Gaius had given him was wonderful but many times it wasn’t enough to go by so he was determined to absorb as much as he could while here.

But after another warm bath, he was itching to _do_ something. As a servant, he was regularly following someone’s orders even if Arthur was busy doing something else. There were feasts to prepare for; clothes and rooms to clean, crossbow bolts to fetch. And that was added to his duties as the king’s personal manservant and Gaius’ assistant.

Here, though, there was no speeches to write for lazy kings or knights to watch being beat by swords. There was only he and Morgana.

And as much fun as it was, it _hurt_ to think of the playful woman she’d been. Because she’d killed hundreds if not thousands of innocent people in her quest for power. Raised a shade of Lancelot to break apart Gwen and Arthur. He couldn’t remember the count of times she’d tried to kill her half-brother.

But that _smile_ as she’d remembered that Gwen was the kindest soul anyone had ever met and Arthur was capable of great deeds and that once upon a time she’d have done anything to keep her friends safe.

The memories did nothing to help his itch. If he had to guess, they made it worse because they were beautiful—beautiful like a storm and more powerful.

So he left his room and wandered. Explored. Took in everything. Like the day before. Except—

Except this time he didn’t just wander. He took in the castle with the care a mother took with a newborn.

He walked slowly, reaching out to touch the texture of the walls—the smooth stone. When he walked into rooms he perused the books or smelled the sheets. He traced the grains of the wood on chairs and beds and mantles, marveling.

And as he did, something sparked. Like being shocked or stung or that time when Arthur pushed him into the creek at the beginning of spring and Merlin had nearly frozen to death. So he kept touching.

And he reached—reached not only with his hands, but with his magic.

And he found—oh what he _found_.

Magic. Beautiful magic. Magic like the nervous system. (How _did_ Gauis know about her nervous system?)

It was—gods it was beautiful. Strewn about like a tapestry. No—that was—it had more dimensions than a tapestry.

A piece of music. Or a laugh.

He plucked strings of magic to hear how they sounded in his veins. Merlin would follow the vibrations of magic as long as he dared—mindful of the possibility of not being able to come back to himself. (But oh how he wanted to. To tell Destiny to shove off and follow the magic to the end of time.)

And he learned more about magic by doing this than he ever could in Camelot because he couldn’t risk just leaving himself to discover magic. He found the magic in the walls was primarily the binding sort. And that binding was too small a word for what it was doing.

The magic was meant to bind people together as surely as it had the stone. People and their ideas and their magic or inability to use magic ( _like a round table in a ruined castle_ , Merlin thought with a pang of longing). Because there was more than one type of magic here.

The Old Religion thrummed here, its golden threads were spread about the building that welcomed him like an old friend. But there was magic here that was older—tasting of saltpeter and smelling like sulfur and being surrounded by giant stalks of grass. And younger, like the sound of a new fire licking at dry wood.

And all of it working together. (It reminded him of the knights even more, so much it hurt.)

For instance, when he went into the room where he and Morgana had been playing, the magic was running around him soothingly, getting him to relax, which he never had time for.

It took him a while to figure out exactly what that _meant_. Long enough for him to take off his shoes (smiling at the magic buzzing between his toes) and laid out on one of the plush rugs. He meandered through magic that sounded like a brook and felt like an embrace surrounded by laughter that he realized it was _compelling_ him to relax. Merlin sat up abruptly, eyes wide. Anger and fear coursed through him as he jumped up.

That he’d been charmed that easily—yesterday had been the work of the magic, not of any lingering memories between them. No wonder they hadn’t been at each other’s throats.

And—gods—it had been so subtle. He should have never trusted this place

_‘Merlin, please relax.’_

_‘I think that’s what I’ve been doing, hasn’t it been? Why should I—you promised safety and I found out on the second day that I’ve been enchanted!'  
_

_‘It was not meant in malice.’  
_

_‘That doesn’t matter. I still did things I wouldn’t have without the magic. How dare you make me thinks I didn’t want to do.’_

_‘How dare you_ presume _?’_

The magic around him flared up. Merlin thought he’d been blinded even as he looked about the room. But his magic reeled back to him. It was so strong that even when it came back to him fully it blazed through him. He took a step back in reflex but it was all around him, in him. He staggered under the weight of it, opening his mouth in a wordless scream.

And just as quickly as it had started, it stopped. His ears rang but he felt fine—better than if the way his magic was itching on the underside of his skin was any indication.

_‘Child, you wanted that peace. You wanted to be young again. To play games and read stories and conquer riddles.’_

_'But—’_

_‘As did Morgana.’_

That would certainly explain a lot.

It hadn’t felt at all odd to play board games or reminisce with his enemy. If anything, it had been nothing less than _right_. Right enough he hadn’t suspected a thing.

Even so…

_‘Then why had she acted so oddly?’_

_‘Morgana has known nothing but a constant guardedness for some time. It has been so long that relaxing causes her to believe she is exposed.’_

Merlin shoved away a stab of guilt, unwilling to keep taking the blame for her. Because an entire country was terrified of her. All of Albion was, honestly. He may have at have started her on her current path, but she had forged ahead all on her own.

_'She feels exposed? She does remember killing innocents right. People that trusted her—loved her!'_

The voice was silent, but sadness lay thick in the air. He hurried out of the room, not bothering with his shoes—the floor was oddly warm and after spending hours in contact with the castle and the idea that he wouldn't feel the magic in some part of him was abhorrent.

He had to get out of here.

Which meant research. Find out the history of the place to find out what the hell its caretaker (and probably creator) wanted of them.

_'Is there any information about this place written down?'_

_'You can just ask, dear one.'_

_'Okay. How can I change back?'_

_'You must reclaim that which you once were.'_

“Damn magical creatures and their riddles,” Merlin muttered under his breath.

Laughter resounded in his head. So joyous and innocent and real Merlin couldn’t help but smile despite his irritation.

_'You may be able to find something in the library.'_

Library. Why hadn’t he gone there already? If he was good at anything it was research. A side effect of Arthur’s penchant for getting into trouble and being Gaius’ assistant.

He couldn’t imagine the library this place had. It must have survived the Purge—oh what the lost knowledge it might have! As long as he stayed out of Morgana’s way, he could learn more about magic, his destiny, or anything else he could think of. And he was good at hiding his true purpose, so that had to be easy compared to saving Camelot with massive amounts of magic without getting beheaded.

“Where is it?”

 _'This way.'_.

A figure appeared. This time It wasn’t made of light but took the form of a silhouette. The light It had used to take form before flitted around the edges of the shadowy figure, beautiful but not as overwhelming.

It led him through the castle and he wondered how he hadn’t come across it yesterday.

Because the doors to the library were huge and they were thrown wide open. As he looked in, he could see it was three stories tall—the two upper floors had balconies overlooking the main floor. Tables and chairs sat in the back, barely seen through the rows and rows of massive bookshelves.

What really got to Merlin was the lighting. It was so well lit he knew he would be able to stay long past dark and not have to squint in candlelight. The sun was streaming through the window but where there should have been shadows, there were none.

If he weren’t so intent on finding out how to leave, he’d inspect the magic with his own (so many nights spent with sore eyes trying to save Arthur—the answer to saving his vision was here).

Merlin went to the nearest bookshelf and took out the first book that caught his eye. It was written in a language unlike any other he’d seen, made of odd characters rather than runes or letters. He wondered where it came from or if Gaius would know.

The sound of footsteps—loud, clacking things that sounded like a horse’s hoof beats—drew him away from the book. He looked up and his jaw dropped.

There was Morgana, her eyes wide as she looked at him (in a shirt and trousers that outlined how she was no longer a woman) while standing beside a creature he’d never seen or heard of.

It had the body of a horse and the torso of a man. It—he—wore no shirt and his long hair was tied up neatly. His facial structure and the darker tint of his skin spoke of far away places.

As Merlin stared with jaw slightly open Morgana collected herself.

“I’m afraid I must leave. Thank you for your assistance Kryhys.”

“It was my pleasure, Lady Morgana."

Morgana stalked past Merlin, not turning to look at him as she did. He watched her go out of the library, a couple of books in hand.

“Welcome Emrys.”

Merlin whipped around, eyes wide.

“You…"

“I am Kryhys, keeper of this library.” He made a wide gesture toward the room. “I am honored to meet you.” The creature bowed—not only at his waist but by kneeling part way down on his forelegs.

“I—thank you, but please stand up.” It was Arthur’s job to be good enough to have people bow to him. It was his to make sure he was there to be bowed to.

The creature did so. Its eyes went to the book in Merlin’s hand, “Ah, the tale of Fu Hao. A great woman, she was.”

“I’m sure. Um, I hope this isn’t rude but what _are_ you?"

“Yes of course. I often forget my kind do not dwell on your island. I am Kryhys of the centaurs.”

“Centaurs…” Merlin thought he’d said this underneath his breath but Kryhys nodded.

“Yes. My people are from the country the Romans refer to as _Graecia_." _  
_

It had been quite some time since he’d felt as ignorant as he did now. He saw the moment Kryhys realized it as his face fell into disappointment. And then brightened. It reminded Merlin of Gaius realizing he had a teaching opportunity.

“Would you like me to show you?”

The warlock nodded and was ushered into a side room filled with was looked like scrolls. Kryhys hummed to himself as he picked through them. Merlin gaped for a few seconds before walking to the huge table in the middle of the room. On it was spread several large maps. Maps of places he’d never seen or heard of and it was incredible.

Merlin felt rather slow as he realized this was a map room. As he looked around, awe settled in his stomach. So many maps! Hundreds, if not thousands. What were the places in them like? Their people, their cultures, their _magic_. Were they less or more afraid of magic than Camelot? Were any of their kings half as good and noble as Arthur? A queen as beautiful and kind as Gwen?

Kryhys walked (on four horse legs—gods his life was weird) to the table and spread out a map on the table.

“Here you are, and here is my country. This is Athens, the city near which I grew up.”

“Albion is…smaller than I would’ve thought.”

And compared to the rest of the landmass, it was. Not tiny, but smaller.

“I suppose it is.”

Merlin set the book down and started asking questions bout the places marked there. About traditions and gods and God. About creatures that didn’t exist in Albion.

Kryhys was happy to tell him everything he could. He seemed to know more about the world than even Gaius. And more willing to give the information than Kilgharrah.

“All of this and you live in a castle? Why?” Merlin didn’t look up from the map, instead tracing the coastlines as he tried to memorize it.

“My people…” he sounded so sad that the warlock looked up, “Magic is slowly disappearing in many parts of the world.”

“What?!” Merlin reached to his magic, making sure it was still there. He sighed in relief as it responded in a soothing manner. Assuring him.

“Calm yourself Emrys—”

“Merlin.”

“Hmm?”

“My name is Merlin.”

The centaur didn’t bother arguing.

“Magic still thrives, Merlin. But we creatures of magic are starting to feel it readying to wane.”

Merlin furrowed his brow, “I don’t feel anything and Kilgharrah said I’m a creature of magic.”

Kryhys smiled, “You, Merlin, are something entirely beyond something such as I . Not to say the Great Dragon lied. You see, I am of magic in the same way a serket is. We are born of and with it, but most magic is quite beyond our control.”

“Those such as Morgana and Kilgharrah have been claimed by a particular sort of magic—in this case the Old Religion.”

It made sense he supposed. In its own way. “So I’ve been ‘claimed’ by the Old Religion. I wonder how that—”

“No, Merlin.”

Kryhys came closer. He surpassed Merlin’s height by a lot and Merlin had to resist stepping back.

“You are a child of magic itself. Even the small amount magic in _my_ veins sang when you were born.”

The warlock shuffled on his feet, not meeting Kryhys in his black eyes. And then a torrent of thoughts cascaded into fear and anger. All of it swirling around the word destiny.

How _dare_ the Old Religion draft him into this prophecy! He’d caused so much pain in an effort to help along an idea given to him by a magic that he didn’t belong to.

And Arthur—

Remembering his friend helped still the waters. Because that cabbage-head of a king made it worth it. Even if realizing the magic that had foretold the king had no real part in him. (He didn’t belong anywhere. He was cut off from his loved ones even in this.)

“You look sad? Why?”

“It seems this is the only place that I can really belong to.”

Kryhys grabbed Merlin’s chin roughly and forced him to look straight into the centaur’s eyes. There was a moment that would have been uncomfortable if Merlin hadn’t been wondering why the hell he’d just told a stranger something ridiculously private.

“You, Emrys, belong everywhere. The only reason the Old Religion has any claim on you is because your king was born in the heart of it.” He let go and walked out of the room. It reminded Merlin of when Kilgharrah flew off after giving Merlin a riddle of advice.

But he was done with figuring out his gods-be-damned destiny by himself. And centaurs didn’t have wings so Merlin could follow after him.

So he did.

“What does that mean?”

Kryhys gave a great sigh. Horse lungs are great for those apparently, though what did he know about centaur anatomy? “Please don’t ask. I can’t—”

“You can, though. Nobody does—not really—they just give me riddles that do more harm than good, but they _can_.”

Kryhys was quiet except for his hoof beats on the stone floor.

It was Merlin’s turn to sigh and he stopped following the librarian. For all he knew, it was written somewhere he was supposed to stumble along in the dark hurting and losing countless people.

“Damn.” Kryhys walked back to him. “It’s easy to forget you’re human.”

“What?”

“You must understand. There are hundreds of mentions of you. Of your power, your destiny, your enemies. But very few of them—if any at all—tell us of your humanity. I wonder if that is why Host brought you here.”

It felt like whiplash. The centaur was worse than Kilgharrah. At least the dragon was consistent.

“You and Arthur are linked by more than prophecy, Em—Merlin. Your very souls are entwined.”

Merlin made a face, “Like soul mates?”

“I supposed the idea is similar, but your bond is much stronger.” Kryhys nodded. “Because of this, where and whenever Arthur had been born, so you would’ve been. If you had been born in Fu Hao’s time and country,” he motioned to the book on the table, “you would have been claimed by the magic there.”

“So we never had a choice? Ever?” Anger rushed through him. It wasn’t _fair_.

“You always had a choice, Merlin. You could have left Camelot, stayed out of Arthur’s service. But you always chose to stay by his side."

Merlin shook his head, “That was all because Kilgharrah said—“

“You could have ignored him—you often did in favor of doing the right thing, did you not?” And it usually turned out poorly (except those occasions where it didn’t and everything was better for it). “Any one of those times you could have denied prophecy and destiny—you still could.” Kryhys had a thoughtful look on his face. “It would probably be better for you in the end if you did.”

“I’m not abandoning Arthur!” Merlin shot at him. Or Gaius or Gwen or Gwaine or Percival…

The centaur smiled. “And there is your answer. You belong at Arthur’s side with or without the help of fate because you love him.”

While only barely convinced, Merlin was satisfied the centaur was telling as much as he knew so he gave Kryhys a small smile. He received such a look of relief it was almost comical. But Merlin’s amusement was cut short by a clearing of the throat.

“So what brings you to the library?”

It reminded Merlin of Leon trying to regain control after one of Gwaine’s cracks. So much so he grinned. Kryhys seemed to be taken aback, looking utterly bewildered. Forcing a straight face had become a talent of his so wiping the stupid smile off his face was easy enough.

“I came to learn as much as I could bout the entity that seems to run this place.”

“Ah, yes. Host. There isn’t much in the way of information on it.”

 _Damn_.

“But there are quite a few journals. Many a magic user has come through here and they allowed me to either copy or take them when they no longer needed them. Not all of them contain more than their awe about it, but some of them had quite a lot of interest in it.”

It wasn’t quite as good as a fully detailed book, but it was good enough for now. He followed Kryhys, not really listening as he rattled on about the people that had stayed there before. At least not until he said, “And three hundred years ago—”

“Did you just say _three hundred?_ ”

“Oh, yes. It’d completely slipped my mind. Host has given me longevity until the library’s true keeper comes along.”

“True keeper?”

“I am an interim librarian, as it were. And honored to be so.”

“You’ve been here for _hundreds of years_ and you’re not the real keeper?”

Kryhys frowned, “I am quite real.”

“You’re still just holding the place down until someone decides to show up?”

“I do not mind. This castle is quite beautiful and I have met many a sorcerer I would call friend.”

It still seemed just shy of insane to Merlin to wait centuries for someone. “Do you even know who it is you’re waiting for?”

“I know they’re coming soon.”

“Soon?”

Kryhys nodded.

They walked in silence up a level and to a back corner. “These shelves are full of journals. Good luck.” And he clip-clopped away.

Looking at the near-bursting shelves, Merlin thought he’d need. It.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the second chapter. I had a lot of fun writing it and putting in little easter eggs that made everything painful for me. So, that was great.


End file.
